


The King's Rook

by ticktockclockwork



Series: Another Machine That Won't Stop [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticktockclockwork/pseuds/ticktockclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Original post: <a href="http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/32901470022/mycroft-was-waiting-for-them-petulance-and"></a></p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“S-sherlock…”

“Yes?”

“We have a meeting. With M-Mycroft.”

“I am aware.”

“We’ll be late if we don’t go now.”

“Yes. Also aware.”

“We have to meet… we have to meet his new project.”

“Dull.”

“Sherlock…”

“John. I currently have my hand down your trousers and am making you mutter the most wonderful of sounds. Something much more interesting than a meeting with a second rate copy of myself will have to come up to tear me away from our current position.”

And John simply could not argue with that.

His head thumped back against the wall of their flat, his hands pressed to the aging and textures wallpaper, trying not to be too noisy now that Sherlock had pointed it out. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs, he knew, and knowing she might overhear their little intimate session here would be more mortifying than he could handle at the moment. So he clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes, keeping down any sounds begging to be let out by Sherlock’s far-too-skilled fingers.

“Oh. Boring. Don’t shut up on my account.” Sherlock purred and did this crafty little twist-rub-twist of his hand that had John’s knees buckling and his hands grabbing to support him. “No, no no shit no okay, bedroom now.” He stammered, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and yanking it out of his pants. Sherlock grinned in victory and stepped back to give John room to drag him to their (now) shared bedroom. 

Kicking over a stack of books and sweeping off countless papers that fluttered messily to the ground, John then crawled onto the bed and turned, grabbing the front of Sherlock’s silk robe and yanking him forward to snog the grin off his face. The robot wasted no time in slipping his hands up under John’s jumper as they tipped back so that Sherlock had to arm and leg it to hover over his Mechanic. He broke the kiss long enough to yank off the sweater and shirt together, leaving John bare chested and panting under his hungry stare. 

John was flushed and his chest rose and fell with each human breath but it was the click-click-clink from his left shoulder that drew Sherlock’s attention now and as he lifted slow fingers to set upon the subtle gears just barely visible under John’s orgo-skin, John turned his face away and closed his eyes tight. He was not as fond of the mechanical workings in his arm and chest as Sherlock was and while he didn’t show as much disgust towards the contraptions as he had before, the coping process was still ever going. Sherlock, for all that he was worth and for nothing else in this world, would forever feel remorse for this new part of his John. This Other, this mechanical bit. Because while it made them similar in ways Sherlock could appreciate, the guilt of the causing situation still weighed heavy on his mind.

But then John’s gasp of breath as he stood waiting on the precipice between arousal and shame brought Sherlock back to the here and now and with it, the knowledge that John was alive. And that he was eternally grateful for. Dipping his head with new vigor but more care, he laid his lips upon the mess of scars and felt the gears and cogs clink together and pause as John went rigid, fingers twisting tightly in the sheets. He let out a warm breath over John’s shuddering skin and then moved to lay more ghost kisses on his skin, over the angry reminders of almosts and what ifs. Over the tiny part of him now in his lover. Over the collar that had taken far too long to heal and up the throat that captured John’s bump-bump-bumping heartbeat like a moth in a jar. Into the crook of his jaw and against that sweet spot by his ear and when he reached the end, John was relaxed again and no longer holding onto sheets, but rather onto Sherlock.

“I like this…” He whispered, two fingers pressed into his soft throat, observing, listening, feeling John’s heart beat as it raced with ever shift of Sherlock’s hips.

John met his eyes at that and nodded his head sharply, mouth cracking as he sucked in a breath. “I like that too.”

Learning this, this move of arms and legs and hips took a very long time. Longer than John cared to admit but teaching a robot how to experience something so carnally human was a difficult process. Sherlock understood emotions, or was on his way to understanding them. But he didn’t understand pleasure, the accepting or reciprocating of it. It took some special upgrades to get him to the place where he began to understand what felt good and how to give John those same feelings but now they were well on their way to mastering that acquired art. Sherlock, for his part, had memorized ever damn spot on John’s body that made him flush, whimper, arch and moan.

John sat up some and worked Sherlock’s clothes off of him, always having difficulty with Sherlock’s shirt as the bot always seemed absolutely refusing to remove his hands from John’s skin. It was tossed aside when successfully pulled off and left forgotten as John pressed lips to Sherlock’s throat now. The subtle vibration of Sherlock voice in his neck was pleasant and John pulled him back down as he laid amongst their messy comforter, fingers losing themselves in his dark curls and knees opening for Sherlock to fall between.

“Trousers.” Sherlock demanded but John had to shake his head and put his foot down (figuratively, his foot was currently locked behind Sherlock’s hips). They didn’t have time for that. John had long learned that Sherlock was notorious for dragging this out. He never tired, never grew achey. He could go and go and go for hours and almost always would, making it so that John could barely keep his eyes open in the end. But they didn’t have hours. As it were they were already going to be late so this had to be quick.

Sherlock growled his displeasure but didn’t push the issue, instead dishing out his own punishment by dipping his back and grinding the both of them together. The friction of wonderful action shot static lines of electricity right up John’s cock, spine and then to his brain. He arched and brought them together again, his eyes shutting tight against all the sensations. His shoulder was long forgotten as he threw his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and held on tight, head pressing back to the pillows. “John.” Sherlock growled low in said man’s ear, making him whine and pull on that dark hair. Sherlock smiled against his skin and rutted against him again, both men writhing in pleasure. 

John dropped his hips when he grew dizzy from holding his breath, blinking open bleary eyes to look up into those of his lover. The other was smirking and John would have none of that so with a hook of his legs and a shove of his hips he was flipping them so he was atop Sherlock’s hips, hands pinning him down by the chest. It was his turn to grin in victory before rocking forward and then licking up Sherlock’s neck as he threw his head back. Yes, he wouldn’t be lasting long.

Sherlock held his hips with tight fingers and thrust up against him as John pressed down. They weren’t in sync and it was obvious they were rushed but John didn’t care. He loved these fleeting messy moments as good as the ones that lasted all night and as he felt the sweat build on his brow and neck he picked up the motions, working down against Sherlock. One arm buckled at the elbow and he rested his forehead to Sherlock’s collar, grunting and gasping as he worked against him. It was when Sherlock added a warm hand to the front of his trousers that he gasped, bucked and came. 

Curling fingers into unrelenting muscle and feeling Sherlock still rock against him to continue the pleasure, John breathed out Sherlock’s name like a plea and then just sunk down against him. As color came from the white light behind his eyes, he became aware of the hands running from the nape of his neck and down his back then up the same path again. He smiled at the motion and pressed kisses to Sherlock’s skin, spending a moment to catch his breath before lifting his head.

Sherlock looked lazy and sated though John knew he couldn’t enjoy this in the same way as himself. He had half-lidded eyes, though, and was smiling, looking to John as if he were the most interesting thing in the world. And while John wasn’t one to pat his own back, if he had to guess he’d say to Sherlock he probably was. And he knew he’d never truly be able to live up to that but that was okay. He leaned up and kissed him again, holding it, as languid as he felt. 

“Mycroft is going to kill us.” Sherlock whispered as John tipped sideways and curled into his arms. Needless to say, John didn’t care at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft was waiting for them, petulance and irritation written across his brow as if by red pen. John had the decency to look ashamed but Sherlock could care less. Selfishness was the wick to a child’s emotional candle and Sherlock was barely past the age of eight. He’d had a lovely morning, Mycroft be damned.

“You’re looking well today John.” Mycroft drawled, his eyes dipping conspicuously to look at John’s neck where fresh and possessive markings peeked out from below his collar. With a deeper flush and an unnecessary cough, John shifted and adjusted to try and cover it up as quietly as it had been revealed. “Yes, the weather is, uhm. Quite wonderful today.” His attempted reply was disastrous and Sherlock was smirking next to him, calling his bluff despite playing on his team.

Mycroft rolled his eyes lightly and let out a heavy, chastising sigh. “As you are nearly an hour late, am I to assume that you need reminding as to why you were called?” He knew they didn’t but if Mycroft liked anything, it was hearing his own voice, particularly when he was speaking down to others. “I called you in to meet our newest prototype. He calls himself Jim.”

“Yes. I have read his file.” Sherlock spoke up, bored already. He wanted to go back home and had half a mind to do just that if things didn’t get interesting soon.

“And we all know how lacking those can be when properly describing an individual.” The words were spoken under his breath but John snorted a chuckle regardless, shifting and trying to hide it with another ill-timed cough as Sherlock shot him a narrow-eyed glare. “I wanted you to meet him Sherlock, especially as you will likely be working with him on more than one case.”

“I don’t need help. John is all I need.”

“And he is doing a fine job of fixing you when you run foolishly into trouble. But, and please do not be offended by what I am about to say John, he is far from qualified to be on cases, let alone acting as detective on many occasions.”

Sherlock’s feathers were ruffled by Mycroft’s allegations against John’s qualifications and he sat upright in the chair, abandoning his slouched position. “John has saved my life as well as many others, on more than one occasion.” He asserted.

“Yes and I am not bringing his courage or bravado into question, here Sherlock. There is no doubt that John is a frightfully reliable man or that he has more knackers than half our royal navy but he is not a detective and should not be brought along as one. He is a mechanic.”

“And he is STILL in this room.” John finally spoke up. While he wasn’t offended by what they were saying, he knew he would soon grow to be if they were to continue talking about him as if he were another dusty picture hanging on the wall. Mycroft seemed repentant though he didn’t say so and Sherlock just looked upset, his arms crossed over his chest and his back bowed as he’d sunk into his slouched position once again. John sighed inwardly at the both of them. “Listen. I know I’m not a detective and I won’t ever be as smart or useful as Sherlock. I don’t pretend to be and frankly I’m not sure I want to be. And Sherlock, you shouldn’t want me to either.” He looked to him and Sherlock looked away.

“What I do know is that you are magnificent. And to have another like you can only be good. If he is as clever and resourceful as you are, then he should be someone you’d want to meet. Someone you’d want to work with. Imagine all the crimes the both of you could solve.”

Mycroft was silently astounded at the complete acceptance John had over his position in Sherlock’s life. Others would be greedy, wishing to be as wonderful, as intelligent, as needed as Sherlock. Indeed, many would want to be all that TO Sherlock and the idea that someone else could potentially be much more interesting than them would send them in a tizzy. But John knew his place, understand his place, and enjoyed his place. Mycroft could see the magnificence that was John Watson. He was able to understand that John had taught Sherlock the impossible, had bred within the robot an unforeseen sense of humanity. And that made John irreplaceable in Mycroft’s mind. To see that John was aware and understanding of the fact that he was not to be replaced was comforting to the government man. Now it was just a matter of convincing Sherlock of this fact.

“I don’t want to work with him.” Sherlock said in return, digging into hands into his pockets to pull out a cigarette. Mycroft scowled at the disgusting human habit he’d picked up and parroted, wondering idly who he’d gained it from. John didn’t seem any more pleased but he said nothing to the fact.

“How about you just meet him. Give him the benefit of the doubt. You might find him fascinating in the end.” John offered as a compromise, scratching the back of his neck in that boyish way that Sherlock hoped he never lost. He watched his muscles move and his limbs bend beneath the folds of his clothing and while he juggled the compromise around in his mind he simultaneously replayed their morning events.

“Just a meeting?”

“Just a meeting.” It was Mycroft who spoke now, having stayed quiet as he’d watched John pull the agreement out of him.

“Fine. But I want to leave within an hour. I have things that need to be done and I don’t want to waste time shaking hands and kissing babies.” He muttered.

“No babies, on my word.” Mycroft smirked, moving to his phone to tell his assistant to show the other robot in.

Whatever the two men had been expecting, it had not been this. In John’s mind the man he only knew as Jim was similar to Sherlock. He couldn’t fathom someone putting in as much time into this one as they’d done for Sherlock so while he knew he’d be shocked to see two Sherlock’s, that was indeed what he was expecting. Sherlock, for his part, was simply expecting another Mycroft which certainly hadn’t aided his sour attitude towards the whole proceeding.

What they saw instead was a young and youthful looking man with short cut hair and a stupid looking smile on his face. He seemed like a dog, all around happy but attempting to contain it. His shirt was modern, his pants loose. He looked nothing the sleuthful detective they’d been described and instead like someone you would find in IT. He walked up to Sherlock first, an odd bob to his gait and held out his hand to shake. “You’re Sherlock, yes. Oh I have heard a great deal about you, yes I have. Is it true that you solved the murder of Miss Clancy Malone from just a press on nail and two dead cats?” He asked in a rush and John actually took a step back to give the boys personality some room.

Sherlock was just as taken aback and actually looked to Mycroft to be sure that this was indeed the robot who would be solving murders with him. When Mycroft made no move to remove the man he had to assume the worse. “Indeed.” Was all he said before awkwardly shaking the other’s hand. Admittedly, the action was still foreign to the robot given that it was purely a human social interaction and seemingly pointless to a robot. But even so, it was awkward given he had no idea how to read the storm of uncomfortable activity that had just walked into the room.

“My name is James. Or Jim as I like to call myself.” He smiled and rubbed his ear, casting a cursory though uninterested glance at John as the man shifted a little beside them.

“Yes, its…”

“A pleasure.” John supplied.

“Yes, right. It is a pleasure to meet you James.”

“Jim.”

“Hm?”

“Jim.” There was a pause and he didn’t break eye contact with Sherlock. “I like to be called Jim.”

There was something there, something passing and wrong but it was gone too quick to catch and John was sure he’d imagined it. It was a tick, a flag, something noticeable while hidden all the same. It was like the tail end of a dream you both want and don’t want to remember. What he saw he didn’t like but he didn’t know why and he was too busy trying to keep up to remember to be upset. The feeling of unease passed as quickly as it had set on.

“Very well. Jim. Yes, it is a pleasure to meet you. Mycroft has been explaining that you will be assisting us on solving crimes.” Sherlock broached the conversation away from awkward introductions to the reason they were all there.

Jim nodded his agreement and shifted, wringing his hands some. “Yes, I will be helping you on crime scenes. I have been specifically designed to understand the psyche of our murderers to better support you in understanding the murder itself. In essence, I will be determining the why to your how.” He grinned here and John saw the wrong again, the tick, but before he could form any detrimental judgment, Mycroft was speaking, stepping forward to do so.

“Jim won’t be joining you at the actual crime scenes unless it is necessary. He will be allowed one thorough walk through but then his assistance will be called upon once a lead is found. Which means you must have constant contact with him Sherlock. When you have a suspect you will tell him. He will be interviewing them, examining them, trying to understand them. He is more suited for that purpose, has been in fact built more suitable. This will both free up your time as well as, hopefully, keep you more out of harm. I do not need more phone calls from Scotland Yard telling me of all the accidents you've found yourself in.” He looked to John. “And that goes for you as well.”

John nodded and stepped up towards Sherlock. It was clear that the meeting was wrapping up and if Sherlock were forced to stay longer than he already had, then there was sure to be trouble in the form of a temper tantrum. And while Sherlock wasn’t one to drop to the floor and cry, kicking and screaming, as children so often did when they were unhappy with the current situation, he was likely to start insulting anyone within hearing range. John included. So taking up the man’s hand he smiled to both Jim and Mycroft. “It was nice to meet the both of you but we should be going.”

When he looked to Jim he wasn’t met with a metal stare but instead saw the other bot staring at their clasped hands. This certainly shouldn’t be a surprise given that humans took up relationships with bots all the time. Sure, those bots could only pretend at emotions, spitting out hard coded libraries of phrases and actions. But was that what he was staring at? John was suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny, not because he felt like he was being judged, but because he didn’t know what Jim was thinking at all. Assumptions and judgment he could handle. This unknowing… that was throwing him off.

With a few last terse goodbyes, Sherlock and John left the office. John hadn’t let Sherlock’s hand go and Sherlock certainly didn’t seem to mind. In fact he was too wrapped up in his own mind to even notice John’s unease. John cast a look back over his shoulder before they were out of sight of the office and while Jim’s eyes were firmly planted on Mycroft who was speaking, John couldn’t help but feel that the other robot was still watching them. While he was excited about the prospect of seeing another magnificent creation flourish outside of Mycroft’s workshop, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was someone wrong with what had come off the conveyor belt this time.

And what was worse, he had no idea how Sherlock would react should he bring up these concerns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post: [](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/32901470022/mycroft-was-waiting-for-them-petulance-and)


	3. Chapter 3

“What’s wrong?”

The question comes out of the blue, in the middle of an otherwise silent moment. Sherlock had been thinking about the triple murder case that was progressing nicely into a beautiful clusterfuck of mayhem while no one bothered to call him and John had been sitting at their part time dining table, part time desk, typing up a report for Mycroft. By the sound of John’s breathing and his constant shifting, it was no doubt about him. He’d read it later, his focus right now was on the very badly botched news report telling him about how the suspect had entered through the side window (when he’d most definitely come in through the back door) and how he’d taken some jewelry precious to the family (when in reality he hadn’t taken any jewelry at all but rather the family chronicles which is what had sparked Sherlock’s interest to begin with.)

“Everything. Everything is wrong. The detectives are wrong. The investigators are wrong. The reporter is wrong. The details they are leaking are wrong and an idiot would think they were doing it on purpose but it is clear that they are JUST. WRONG.” He threw his hands at the screen in obvious frustration, kicking his legs out in front of him as his robe slid over the edge of the chair to skim the worn rug beneath his chair.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” John spoke this with a sigh, though Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear it or if it was only for John’s benefit. Regardless it got his attention and he tipped his head towards John as the other turned to drop into the seat across from him. John looked patient but it was clearly just for show. By the tightness in his hands and the straight line of his lips, Sherlock knew John had been brewing a storm in his mind and it was starting to spill out now. “Something is wrong. With you. Something is wrong with you, and that’s what I’m asking about…” He licked his bottom lip and tipped his head, watching him.

“Oh.” Sherlock watched John and wondered when he’d learn to observe, how long it had taken him to pick up the tricks of the trade and for how long he’d been doing it. The fact that Sherlock himself hadn’t noticed John… well… noticing, was worrisome. He’d seen John doing better at crime scenes; he picked up on details quicker and kept up better than he had before. But he’d clearly become more observant than even Sherlock understood. But then again, when you lived with your subject of study, it was only to be expected that you knew when it wasn’t working right. He turned his head away, though, and rolled his eyes. “Nothing.”

He kept his attention on the screen though he wasn’t watching. John was staring at him, his eyes roaming, searching out the answer to his question in his own way. He knew John would figure it out eventually. Mycroft would not have hired him otherwise. But Sherlock was counting on distracting the man before he ever worked it out. Without giving John an indication of his intentions, he jumped to his feet and, in a swirl of blue silk, spun on his heel to stomp to his room. “Get dressed John, we have a crime scene to go to!” He threw up his hand, a finger pointed, as if his enthusiasm could not be contained to his voice alone, as if it were rocketing through his stainless steel bones.

“No.”

He stopped and swallowed uselessly, glancing just an inch backwards before barreling through. “If we don’t hurry they’ll botch up the rest of the evidence and then I’ll actually have to grant them more than half my attention which is more than they really need and more than they really deserve.” He continued as if John had never spoken. But he hadn’t moved despite the conversation continuing forward, his hands holding bunches of his robe tight, his feet grounded and stuck in place.

“No, Sherlock.”

The statement came from behind him and he kept himself from turning, feeling the bright morning winter light drift in through the side window and hit his face, his neck, his eyes. When it was clear he was neither going to talk nor move, John sighed heavily again and did the movement for them, walking forward and around to stand in front of him. He looked up right into his face and narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing again. This time Sherlock let him though he tried to convey just how much he wanted John to stop looking at him like that, like a vase with a crack, an aberration. A fault.

Sherlock held his stare but for just a nanosecond, it all went wrong. A vicious sharp crack sounded through his head, soundless to the world except to himself and everything went pear-shaped. His eyelids half-blinked, his vision shattered, then brightened, his scopes shooting off balance, making him want to tip sideways though he understood his body enough to keep it absolutely still. Anyone else would have missed the whisper of a tremor that tripped its way through his eyes, but John was not anyone else. John was his Mechanic. And he saw it all.

“Jesus, Sherlock…” Another sigh and this one grated on Sherlock’s nerves, felt deprecating, patronizing. The shorter man took his hand and tugged him to sit down on his bed before he disappeared, no doubt to go get his tool kit. Sherlock wanted to simultaneously curl up into the blankets and rip them to shreds. This warring of emotions was held silent inside his fathomless mind. When John returned, Sherlock lazily turned his attention in his direction, keeping his annoyance and disgust as simmered down as he was able. Unfortunately he was still just a child when it came to emotions and control was never one of his virtues.

“Why didn’t you say anything Sherlock?” John was asking him a question but clearly not expecting an answer as he just continued on with his inquiry. “It was that fight back in Blackpool wasn’t it? I fu-” He fought with a word, clearly trying to hold back some vulgarity. “I told you it was a stupid idea to go into that hostel but you dove right in, just like you always do and do you know how hard it is to break up a fight between an android and a traveling semi-professional boxer? Impossible, that’s how hard.” He had yanked Sherlock’s face sideways and was shining a light into his eyes and sighing even heavier, if that were at all possible.

And that was Sherlock’s breaking point.

As John pulled his case over to dig out some other tool, Sherlock swung his arm up and grabbed the bag right out of John’s hands, gripping it tight and throwing it across the room. The case slammed into the wall, showering pin hammers and spare springs and a myriad of other tools all across the floor. The sound was alarming, a clattering of aluminum and metal and wood hitting Sherlock’s desk and floor and his own equipment, breaking many things in a completely unsatisfying maelstrom that settled, eventually, on his floor. He’d stood, though he hadn’t noticed, and when he looked to John he saw his partner on the floor, Sherlock having shoved him over when he grabbed the case from his hands.

His vision shattered again and John’s face broke apart in his eyes, the light blinding for a split second, working in tandem with the ringing in his mind, like that pin hammer on the floor had struck his skull instead of his microscope. He blinked unevenly then turned away again, hands clenching and unclenching, teeth pressed so tight together he thought they might fuse permanently that way. “I’m fine.” He said quietly, painfully, before turning to walk over both the tools on the floor and John’s body, stalking out into the living room and lowering himself down into his chair.

It was ten minutes and twenty nine point six seconds before John’s voice coated the walls of his mind again. “What’s wrong?” The words caused Sherlock’s eyes to close slowly in aggravation but John shook his head and moved to him. “No. Not with your eyes. You broke your retinal gyroscopes; I know what’s wrong with them.” He slid a hand over Sherlock’s cheek and tipped his face back towards him. “What’s wrong? With you.” He said this quietly, sliding his other hand to Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock understood now that the words were the same but the question was not.

He wanted to say that there was nothing wrong. He wanted to assure John that he was the same and ignore the admittedly scary outburst he’d just had. He wanted to distract John with anything to keep this conversation from happening but it wasn’t going to work out in his favor like that and John was expecting an honest response right now. He met his eyes, trying to keep his own steady despite the occasional glitching that murdered John’s image. “I am… replaceable.” He said simply, blinking and looking away. “And that has… scared me.”

John looked confused. “Scared? What are you scared of? And what do you mean you are replaceable?”

It was Sherlock’s time to sigh, lifting his hands to press his them to his eyes, rubbing hard, wishing he could see the stars from the pressure as humans do. “All of me is replaceable. I am just a carefully crafted coo-coo clock. I have parts. They fit together. And they can be made in bulk. If a part of me breaks, my eyes for example, then they can be removed and replaced and no one, but myself, would be the wiser.” He explained slowly. He knew to anyone else he would sound like he were insulting John’s intelligence by the slowness of his answer, but the careful wording was entirely for his own benefit.

John allowed those words to toss around in his head before he spoke. “So, because you think you are just an interesting combination of parts, you also think you, as an entity, can be replaced. And this is scaring you.” He was trying to understand, he really was, but he couldn’t see it from Sherlock’s point of view, would never be able to. He was human. And that was the problem.

Sherlock leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair in frustration, grabbing his curly locks and gripping them as he tried to think. Hands closed over his, warm and steady, a heartbeat echoing from John’s hands into his body. “You are human. You are crafted from parts that cannot be replaced. Every human is unique in this manner. Sure, you can trade pieces, you can donate your organs when you die and you can give blood or plasma without much harm to yourself. But ultimately, if I remove you heart I can never, truly, regrow another exactly as the one that was removed. Your parts are unique and nothing in our world can recreate that uniqueness. Your entire existence is a fingerprint into the rest of humanity. And when you are gone, nothing and nobody will ever be you. But I am not a fingerprint… I am a stamp.”

He looked into John’s face, held his concern and gave back so much more. He was terrified and while it was an emotion he had felt before, it was one he wasn’t keen on feeling frequently. This fear, though, was a different fear from before. Before he was scared for John’s life. For his safety. For his recovery. Now he feared for himself. It was an internalized terror, a fear for his own existence and just how precarious that was. Not because it could be snuffed out in an instant like a humans. But because it could be wiped out entirely with nothing unique left behind.

“Sherlock…” John closed his eyes and pulled Sherlock’s head down so he could kiss his forehead. “Sometimes you are the smartest man I have ever known.” The casual and honest use of that entirely human word made his heart lift just a little. “But sometimes you can be so unbelievably stupid that I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” He moved his mouth down to fit his against Sherlock’s, giving him a gentle, loving kiss.

“I feel like I should be offended…” He murmured, not sure how he could still offer jokes after just admitting what he had. But he was. Because of John.

“Don’t you dare.” John said with a chuckle, giving him another kiss before he stood and tugged Sherlock with him. “Come on.” They wandered into Sherlock’s room where John motioned for him to climb up on the bed while he picked up some tools off the floor. When he’d grabbed what he needed he moved up to Sherlock’s head and sat cross legged, allowing Sherlock to drop down and set his head in John’s lap. “I’m going to close your eyes but I need you to keep listening to me okay?” He asked and Sherlock nodded. John’s fingers slid to the back of his head to open a genetic scan panel and turned off Sherlock’s vision. He didn’t have to close his eyes but his sight had gone black. “Despite what you think, you are not so different from every other human on this planet.”

“You say as you work open my inner eye…” He murmured resentfully.

“Hush.” John chided as he removed the broken pieces. Sherlock could feel the pressure but not any pain. “You aren’t. You might be made up of different materials but so is every other person, in the end at least. You are more durable, you are smarter, you have parts that, yes, are replaceable, but you… YOU as a person are not. Because you are not just code come to life. You are not just a high tech program. You are Sherlock Holmes. You are the world’s only consulting detective. And you are mine. You are real, even if your body works in a different manner than mine. You have emotions that you have learned, you have memories that you have developed yourself and stored yourself. You have done all this on your own and have long surpassed anything that was ever originally dreamed for you. You might have begun as a programmed object, only knowing what had been installed, but we all begin that way. We all begin with only the barest of motor skills. We cannot talk. We do not understand what we feel. And frankly we feel little besides hunger, exhaustion, and pain. We grow. And we learn. And we live. And from then we become unique. We all start out in the same place, just a dream, a hope created real, you the same as everyone else in this world. So don’t you dare ever think you are replaceable.” John dropped a few parts into his eye, setting and shifting them to lock them in place before running his fingers back over the panel and turning his vision back on. The ringing was gone, as was the broken imagery. “You are not replaceable to me Sherlock. Not any of you.”

Sherlock watched him, his vision upside down as he looked up at him from his position in his lap, before he leaned up to kiss him. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if he actually believed John now. But the pain in his chest had lessened and he no longer feared his imminent replacement. And that was progress. So he pushed away the tools, crawled up over John’s body and he laid him back on the bed, allowing his eyes to close on his own this time and just enjoying the heat found deep in John’s mouth.

The sun was kissing the horizon when he pulled back again, his hand running along the bare skin of John’s waist. Their clothes had joined the other tools on the floor and in its absence he was mapping out the contours of John’s body, the soft lines showing his age and his enjoyment, the sweat showing his humanity and how Sherlock had put it there. John’s eyes were hazy with satiated pleasure and Sherlock was pleased to find they were locked entirely on him, on his face, on his lips and not as they had been before, looking for the aberration, but now loving everything else. John was glossing over him in the most beautiful way possible, as one looks at a painting, at the entirety of one creation and not the details in the brush strokes. He was marveling the masterpiece that was Sherlock the human, not the innovation that was Sherlock the robot.

“What’s wrong?” He asked with a smile, dropping a kiss to John’s naval, pleased when John’s back arched just softly as the tenuous sensation.

John shook his head, dropping a damp hand to Sherlock hair to card through his curls. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He returned Sherlock’s smile before letting out a languid laugh and pulling Sherlock up to start the whole process again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/70156076671)


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